


Touch

by shaniacbergara



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Touch-Starved, author is projecting only a tiny tiny bit, it's soft I promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:41:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22438129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shaniacbergara/pseuds/shaniacbergara
Summary: Crowley is touch starved, until he isn't.Come talk to me over at toby-zachary-ziegler!!
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 244





	Touch

Hell, as it turns out, wasn’t a great place for anything warm and fuzzy. Crowley learned that pretty quickly, not that he was warm and fuzzy, mind you. He wasn’t. Cold blooded through and through. At least, that’s what he told everyone.

In Hell, it was a don’t-get-too-close, mentality. Demons are fundamentally wounded creatures, reeling from falls and the smell of sulfur in their noses. They put up protective shells, spikes and exoskeletons to prevent anyone from thinking they might like to get a little closer. Crowley would sit around, his yellow eyes the only indication of his demonic nature, and wouldn’t dare reach out. 

A snake is not something many people like to touch. Crowley, back when he was Crawley, was the one who gave snakes that reputation in the first place. Vile tempters, snakes are, evil through and through. Don’t get too close to one or else you might find yourself falling towards evil yourself.

But then, on the battlements, overlooking that wasteland that the Almighty had sentenced that pair of hopeful humans to, he dropped his snakeskin, gazing at the Angel of the Eastern Gate with his yellow eyes. 

And the angel smiled at him. He smiled. He couldn’t remember a smile that wasn’t mocking or insincere or harsh or spiteful in years. When the angel spoke it was like his voice was wrapping itself around Crawley’s shoulders, all warm and perfect despite the breeze that ruffled the angel’s bright curls. Crawley shuddered with it, listening to its rises and falls. 

When the rain had finally begun to fall, that first inevitable rain, the angel, Aziraphale, had stretched his wing up to shield Crawley from the deluge. As he did so, a feather brushed, ever so lightly, against the length of Crawley’s back. It had taken all of Crawley’s not inconsiderable nerve to stay still, not to jerk away as if electrocuted. After a breath, the demon shuffled, desperately, closer to the angel beneath his wing, thoughts whirring a mile a minute through his head.

He’d found him in Mesopotamia, watching from a distance as the angel fretted, hands knitted together over his chest. He’d known what was going on for quite some time, of course. His side had already been working with Noah’s sons, seeing which might be ripe for a temptation or two, after this nasty business was all said and done. It turned his stomach, and he’d have to have words with a certain angel about it.

He swung around him, standing close, for the sake of the crowd, of course.

“Hello, Aziraphale!” He sang it, practically. He hadn’t meant to, but the angel was standing there, more beautiful than he’d remembered him being, and he hoped Aziraphale couldn’t hear his heart beating out of his chest.

“Crawley.” A bare acknowledgement before he turned back to the boat, but Crawley would have taken a mere blink of the eye.

They spoke together, Crawley insisting that Aziraphale take responsibility for the kids, though he saw the shame burn in those blue eyes when he did. But then, just as the rain started again, no wings to protect the pair of them this time, Aziraphale bumped Crawley’s elbow with his own. It sent jolts of electricity coursing through Crawley, and he knew he was done for.

In Golgotha, not the place for touching, though death sends people into each other’s arms often enough, Crowley had learned. A correction, a new name, now that Crowley was certain that Hell wasn’t the place for him, not if he could help it. And Aziraphale, not looking at him, leaned back just the tiniest bit against Crowley’s thin form. Crowley couldn’t offer any more comfort, didn’t know how, didn’t know where to begin, so he just let the angel lean, propping him upright despite the static currently playing between his ears.

They left, after, and Crowley had been mad at himself. Getting too close to an angel, letting himself need that contact. Honestly, what was wrong with him? He’d have to do better, have to be better in the future. Sure, Hell wasn’t going to be his place, but if he could help it, he’d find other things to occupy his mind. 

Alcohol, he found, worked wonders in that regard, which was how he found himself in Rome. Luck, however, was very rarely on Crowley’s side?

“Crawley?” He winced, but there was a quick correction. He didn’t even have to turn, only one being on Earth knew that name. He did turn, though, eventually. Found himself quite unable not to. He turned to see the angel, looking very at home here in Rome. Looking like he could tempt anyone to debauchery, but that had been in vogue back then. 

“Well, let me tempt you to…” and the angel tried to cover his tracks, but the demon was already smirking. And he let the angel take him for oysters, just their fingertips touching as they passed the shells between the two of them. Many scholars of the time will trace the aphrodisiac qualities of oysters to Crowley, but in reality, as he watched the thin neck swallow and those snarky lips quirk up, it was Aziraphale who inadvertently blessed the shellfish. Aziraphale, later, would find he didn’t regret this slight transgression.

In West Essex, with far too much armor covering far too much skin, Crowley ached. He hated himself for it, the angel wasn’t his. It shouldn’t have mattered, Crowley ought to be able to school himself better by now. He left, stomping away, his skin burning and spent the night shivering.

He’d sworn, then, that he’d keep his distance. He’d keep tabs on the angel, just as any adversary would, but would drink himself into oblivion and keep himself under control.  
Of course Aziraphale would have to go and much everything up. Crowley chose a corner far away from the angel, snarking him immediately upon his appearance. The look Aziraphale cast his way made Crowley feel bare and raw, as if those blue eyes could reach out and touch him themselves. Crowley couldn’t tell if he desperately wished the angel would act on that heat Crowley could feel emanating from him, or if he desperately wished he wouldn’t. He wasn’t sure what would happen to him if the angel touched him, just then. It had been since Rome, he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t discorporate. 

An offer of crepes, and Crowley lost all hope of being able to stay away from the angel for any length of time. He just had to be careful, that was all. And, as he thought through it, perhaps some insurance would do him good.

He’d waited to ask, wasn’t sure how much he could request without Aziraphale thinking he was crazy. They hadn’t touched since Rome, but this wasn’t touch Crowley was requesting. He could never, he would never. However, as it turned out, holy water was far too much to request. 

They hadn’t touched since Rome.

Crowley let the burning beneath the soles of his feet suffice, as he hobbled and hopped and limped his way into the church. At least it was something, he figured, and heat was always the closest he could get. He saved the angel, and his books.

They hadn’t touched since Rome. Nobody had touched Crowley since Rome.

Crowley would have saved Aziraphale a hundred times over, the holy water be damned. He passed him his books, and Aziraphale-fully aware now, bright eyes looking at Crowley, determined not to look away again-had draped his fingers over Crowley’s hand. Crowley’s breath caught in his throat as he fought to make his words sound normal.

“Lift home?” He inquired, heart hammering, skin buzzing. More, more, more, more, his brain insisted, and Crowley nearly hissed aloud at himself to shut up, already. 

It came crashing down in Soho, their fingers brushing over the cap of the thermos. More, more, more, more, was now a familiar thrum in Crowley’s head, as familiar as his own pulse. But it screeched to a halt as Aziraphale looked at him, wide eyed and desperate.

“You go too fast for me, Crowley.” He was gone shortly after, and Crowley was left alone, counting touches over millennia, wondering which had been too much, which had been too pushy. 

They forced themselves back to a normal routine, put it into overdrive when the Antichrist came along. Casual touches in the Dowling’s home that made Crowley’s skin ache, nights full of wine and music where Crowley could feel his resolve weakening. At least the wine made his skin warm, at least he could watch the rosy flush appear on Aziraphale’s cheeks, even if he couldn’t feel it.

It had occurred to Crowley, sometime between that disastrous moment in Soho and the Apocalypse That Never Was, that he’d fallen in love with Aziraphale the moment he’d met him. It had occurred to Crowley that, as a demon, this presented a bit of a problem. It had occurred to Crowley that loving Aziraphale, needing his touch, and being so certain that it would never happen, was a form of falling that he’d never anticipated, but that he was certain to endure for as long as he lived.

A clink of glasses, a promise of the world, and a trip back to Aziraphale’s bookshop for a nightcap, it wasn’t every day you helped save the world, after all, and Aziraphale was sitting right next to Crowley on the well worn sofa hidden away in the back of the shop. 

Aziraphale was talking, but Crowley was too focused on the bookshop, whole and unburnt, and on Aziraphale himself, whole, angelic, and unburnt, to really focus on his words. He was brought back to reality by a hand on his knee, and his whole self sang, a long high note played on a finely tuned cello. 

“My dear, are you quite alright?” Aziraphale asked him, and Crowley felt that familiar pride. His dear. Aziraphale’s dear. It didn’t mean anything, Aziraphale was just like that, but Crowley would take anything he could get. He couldn’t take his eyes off Aziraphale’s soft hand on his angular knee. “Crowley?”

“Hmm?”

“Are you alright?” Crowley watched the hand move, couldn’t follow it, but felt it grip his shoulder. He nearly groaned aloud. The hand squeezed, and he forced his head to turn towards Aziraphale. How did words work? Did he ever actually learn how to speak or was that just his excellent imagination. He concentrated with all his might, attempting to isolate his shoulder from the rest of his consciousness.

“Yeah.” He said, which was the best he could manage. Aziraphale softened, his face relaxing into a grin, and Crowley could feel that heat again, something familiar, something Parisian. And Aziraphale did the unthinkable, he reached up, and ran a hand through Crowley’s hair. A full bodied shudder went through Crowley, which he had just enough coherence to register as thoroughly embarrassing, before he passed out.

When he awoke, his head was on Aziraphale’s lap. This, already, nearly sent him reeling again. He rolled off of him, standing up too quickly, backing away even as his vision swam.

“Honestly, Crowley, that’s quite enough.” Aziraphale stood too, his hands reaching out as if to steady the demon, but keeping just enough distance. 

“What did you do that for, Zira?” Crowley demanded, trying desperately to shift the focus off of him.

“What on earth are you talking about?” Aziraphale replied, not letting Crowley get away with anything, as always. “Why did I do what?”

“Touch me!” Crowley insisted, raw, and honest as an open wound. Aziraphale’s eyebrows shot up, and he took a step towards Crowley. Crowley couldn’t step back, not now that it was out there.

“Touch you.” Aziraphale repeated, sounding thoroughly dumbfounded, pitying, and desperate all at once. Crowley screwed his eyes shut. “Crowley.” Aziraphale began, before taking a deep breath and starting again. “Crowley...when was the last time anyone touched you?” Crowley could barely hear him over the sound of blood rushing in his ears. He didn’t answer. “My dear?”

“Rome!” He replied, the answer tearing out of him without Crowley’s express permission. He turned his back on him then, a nearly impossible feat, and crossed his arms, tightly, over his thin chest, trying to stop the rattling breaths he heard there. He didn’t hear the footsteps, but he did hear the angel’s perfect voice in his ear. 

“I’m going to touch you now, love.” It was a whisper, and a new title that had shivers rolling down Crowley’s spine. “Because I’ve wanted to for quite some time.” The admission startled Crowley, but he couldn’t give voice to it, couldn’t really give voice to anything at the moment. “If it’s too much, or if I do anything you don’t like, I want you to say so.”   
Hands, on Crowley’s shoulders, lingering there, squeezing intermittently before finally, finally, his shoulders relaxed away from his ears. They ran down the length of his arms, down, then back up again. Crowley barely noticed that he was being guided back to the sofa, gently led to sit. A hand tracing up and down his spine, and Crowley’s eyes relaxed, shut gently now rather than tensed. Aziraphale’s hands guided Crowley’s head to his shoulder and he wrapped his arms around him, guiding Crowley’s hands so that he was holding onto Aziraphale. 

He held him, rocking gently, until Crowley’s breathing returned to a normal pace, until the waves of need and anxiety and desperation stopped rolling off of him, until his pulse stopped hammering away. It occurred to Crowley, face nestled in Aziraphale’s neck, breathing in that scent of books and honey and cool fresh air that was so distinctly Aziraphale, that Aziraphale might have held him there forever. He leaned back, slowly disentangling.

“Zira?” He finally found the courage to look at the angel, who had tears in his bright eyes, his cheeks ruddy, his nose pink. 

“Why didn’t you say something?” He asked, reaching out to touch Crowley’s cheek. Crowley reached out in turn, stopping before he reached Aziraphale’s face. The angel nodded, and Crowley, hands shaking, gently and softly wiped at his tears. 

“I didn’t know.” He replied, which was true enough. Aziraphale searched his face, looking into his golden eyes, his glasses long since tossed to one side. 

“I’d like to kiss you, Crowley.” The angel informed him, and Crowley gripped onto Aziraphale’s jacket. “I’d like to, but only if you’d like me to.”

“Are you mad?” Crowley demanded, eyebrows raised in amusement, rather than astonishment. “Only since the second I met you, angel.” 

Aziraphale kissed him, lips stained with wine, now tinged with Crowley, and Crowley’s head swam. He addressed the Almighty, silently asking if it really had to have taken an Apocalypse to get everything in the world he’d ever wanted. The electricity settled into a warmth and a beauty that was tangible, physical, real. They parted, and Crowley’s lips felt numb.

“Come to bed with me, we ought to rest.” Aziraphale suggested, running a thumb over Crowley’s lips.

“You trying to seduce me, angel?” Crowley couldn’t help but snark.

“Maybe tomorrow.” The angel grinned. “For now I’d rather like to hold you the way you ought to be held.” All of Crowley’s anguish, anxiety, worries, and despair eased out of him, just a bit. “Perhaps I’ll ravish you in the morning.” Aziraphale suggested.

“Or perhaps I’ll ravish you.” Crowley countered. 

Aziraphale smirked, before scooping Crowley up into his arms as easily as if he weighed nothing at all. Crowley yelped, more out of surprise than protest, and allowed himself to be carried to Aziraphale’s bed. 

He woke up, on the first morning, that first morning of safety, of the security of Aziraphale’s arms around him, of the peace of knowing they were together, on their own side, for as long as can be imagined. He woke up, knowing he was safe, knowing he could kiss Aziraphale, a thought so revolutionary and so remarkable that he could nearly faint all over again. He woke up, and let his skin memorize the way Aziraphale’s skin felt, no longer afraid of it all disappearing, no longer desperate for a chance encounter. He woke, and he grinned.


End file.
